


For He on Honey-dew hath Fed, and Drunk the Milk of Paradise

by ligeia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ligeia/pseuds/ligeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wouldn't have imagined it even a few months ago, but he's getting used to Castiel, well enough to tease him by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For He on Honey-dew hath Fed, and Drunk the Milk of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the RSFeathers (on LJ) 100 Watchers challenge: beginning and ending letter must be "C".

Casting an arm around the angel's back to pull him close, Dean Winchester smirks a little. It's Cas's own fault for standing too damn close, besides. He sees blue eyes widen in surprise at the gesture, but that's the only trace of the emotion present: there's no gasp or slight intake of breath, and the body against his remains stiff and upright in its posture.

"Feels awkward, huh?"

Castiel doesn't avert his gaze, and only swallows. Dean's smirk grows even wider at that; the slight bobbing of an adam's apple in Cas's unshaven throat. Coming from someone that doesn't have to blink if he didn't want to, Dean's willing to take that slight outward concession to emotion as a personal victory.

"Personal space, Cas," he drawls. " _That's_ why you don't wanna stand too close."

The whistling of the tea kettle interrupts, and he pats Castiel on the shoulder before letting go and wandering back toward the other end of Bobby's kitchen to top off his mug of instant coffee grounds.

Dean wouldn't have imagined it even a few months ago, but he _likes_ this. Castiel's company, Castiel's _something_. Dean's getting used to him, and he knows Cas well enough to tease him by now. The better he knows Castiel, the more he sees just how unfamiliar the angel is with the depth of human experience, more than even the other angels he's seen. He tries to not think of it as endearing (or, heaven forbid, cute); the way that terrible perfection was slowly unraveling. But it was definitely something to behold.

Hell, it would be a downright shame if he _didn't_ try to make the most of it, right?

He stirs his mug and a couple of undissolved coffee grounds and clumps of powdered creamer float to the surface. Dean empties the remainder of the boiling water into a second mug – it has half as much coffee grounds, no cream, and no sugar – the way Bobby likes it. Dean's halfway into lifting his own mug to his mouth before he catches the sight of Castiel now cautiously taking a seat at the table, eyes studiously focused out the window.

"Sorry, want one?" He lifts the mug to Castiel for emphasis.

"No."

Dean shrugs.

"Suit yourself," he takes a seat opposite Castiel, grabbing the now two-day old newspaper off the table and holding it up while he scans its cover stories again.

Silence, followed by some creaking from a wheelchair from the other end of the house and the eventual sounds of a toilet flushing that indicated Bobby was awake.

"Hey, don't go," Dean suddenly calls over the newspaper to Castiel.

"I was not going to—"

"Sure." Dean drops the paper.

Castiel's eyebrows are creased slightly and a glimmer of white teeth peek out to bite on a lower lip in an expression of confusion that Dean tries to not qualify as "adorable".

"But you were thinking of it, right?" He grins at Castiel now.

Castiel doesn't fidget – yet. And thank the god of small miracles, but Dean almost feels he could get used to this. He wonders if he could get that kind of reaction from the angel eventually. All in due time, though. Dean can be patient when he wants to be, after all. For now, he has maybe a few minutes before Bobby will come into the kitchen, but Dean wonders how wide the eyes would go if he would just lean over to stare at Cas in the same way he's used to receiving. Or if the angel would tremor if he was to kiss him.

Ah, but that was something different from teasing, wasn't it? That kind of thing _would_ be a first for Castiel, of that Dean was sure. Hell, the idea of jerking off has probably never even occurred to the guy, but before those thoughts could stray down their path any further Dean reels in his imagination.

When you're dealing with the goddamn end of the world, you take things one day at a fucking time. And for now there was breakfast.

So Dean's grinning at Castiel now. "Stay. Have breakfast with us, we'll be just like one big happy whatever."

There was no response, and maybe it was his imagination, but Castiel seems to ease just so in the chair.

\--

"How is it now? Still bitter?"

"Oh, leave him alone," Bobby grouses in a tone of good-humor while flipping through the obituaries from the stack of the past week's newspapers.

"No, seriously, Bobby, look at this. He still doesn't like it!" Dean tilts his heads and regards Castiel with a look of mock bafflement giving up with a snort, leaning on the back two legs of his chair. "I mean, Cas, you want some coffee to go with that or something?"

A pint of milk and two half-emptied jars of creamer and sugar are on the table in front of him, and a somewhat preoccupied-looking angel sits across from him. Castiel's nursing a half-full mug of Nescafé coffee that was, by now, more sugar and half-and-half than anything. A moment passes before Cas replies.

"It isn't bitter anymore, but it's very...sweet," comes the perplexed response. The tip of a pink tongue emerges to lick a drop of coffee off the lower lip. "And the taste lingers after I swallow."

Castiel sets the mug down on the table, punctuating that final comment with a look of finality at Dean. Dean throws his hands in the air in a gesture of exaggerated defeat.

"I am sorry, Dean, that I did not like the coffee." Castiel's hand pulls away from the mug, but Dean catches it, folding his own hands over Castiel's fingers.

Dean raises the mug, lifting it and Castiel's hand off the table, eyes never leaving Castiel's all the while. Cas's lips part; it's the barest of openings. But it's another victory, and Dean smiles as he leans over the table to sip at the mug the two are now holding—

—Only to immediately fall back onto his own chair with a thud, coughing at the chemically saccharin influx that attacks his taste buds.

Bobby snorts from across the table, not looking up from the newspaper.

"God, Cas, this stuff is fucking toxic," he sputters, grabbing the pint of milk and draining it in a few gulps. "No wonder you hate _this_ —"

He gestures to the table, meaning the coffee, but almost as soon as he does so Castiel interrupts.

"No, Dean." Castiel's hand comes over his own. "It is terrific."


End file.
